


Fix What You Can

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), No Overt Shipping, Recreational Drug Use, Threats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe, Megatron makes good on the notion of becoming a medic.  Unfortunately, the political system on Cybertron is still the same.  And Megatron is still Megatron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sterner Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was my experiment to see if I could do what many other fan writers do and create a short drabble in response to a prompt (Thanks to morethansky on Tumblr for the original idea) that caught my fancy. 
> 
> The short answer is "no."
> 
> The long answer is "it took a series of drabbles to get across the concepts I came up with, and here they are." All 7K+ words of them.
> 
> I probably won't do this again. I'd have been much happier with a story that had more time and space to develop more fully; here, I feel as though I'm rushing the scenes to keep the length under control. Professional commitments and an ongoing Dratchet series mean I just didn't have any more time to devote to this idea.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, all the same.
> 
> The relationships in this story are deliberately ambiguous so you can imagine friendship, bromance, shipping, and/or OTP as you see fit.
> 
> The Cryptkeepers are my own original creations from the days of Transformers MUSHes and it was really a pleasure to dust them off and bring one out into the light again.

Ratchet had thought he’d found the perfect solution.

Medical students needed work experience. The Dead End medical clinic needed staff. The answer seemed simple enough.

Until he’d seen the applicants.

The first applicant was buddy-buddy with a number of Senate Enforcers. He’d discovered an interest in medicine after patching up his friends a few times. And he was right out. Ratchet didn’t need anyone tattling to the Senate about his scheme to divert medical supplies to a clinic in an area that had been barred up and walled off and left to rot long ago.

The second applicant had interviewed well; then he hadn’t shown up for work. Ratchet received a comm the next day: _I don’t think this is going to work out._ Later, some of the regulars told Ratchet that the mech had barely made it halfway down the street before he’d been overcome by a shaking fit, transformed, and peeled rubber out of there, hollering something about his finish.

The third applicant had made it three months before Ratchet busted him for buying circuit boosters and other stimulants from the dealers in Rodion and selling them to his fellow med students.

Ratchet looked at his two fellow doctors, then at his work schedule for the next week, and shook his head. There was no help for it. The position of Chief Medical Officer was a demanding one, and the other two couldn’t run this place around the clock alone. They needed help.

There was nothing for it but to try again.

He posted the ad on the student bulletin site again, hoping he’d have better luck this time.

*

_Wanted: Medical Student for Internship Position. Gain experience while you work. Strong sense of ethics a must._

A comm address was listed beneath the ad.

There was a catch somewhere. There always was. The fact remained, though, he needed practical experience to graduate, and though he’d applied at clinics in several city-states the answer was always no. The reasons varied, but he read the truth behind the lies. 

_We have no room for a mech like you._

It wasn’t fair, and he itched all over with the temptation to find something to punch, something to punish, something to absorb his rage. He wanted to get all the hurt and pain and fury out of him and put it in the eyes of another. He wanted to know, just once, what it was like to be on the winning side; to be the one with the stick in his hand.

_So you want to be the problem, then. The same sort of scum as the Functionists._

He forced himself to take deep breaths through heavily filtered intakes. The air here was fresh and sweet and yet some part of him still tasted, probably always would taste, the dust and damp air of the mines.

_You aren’t beaten until you quit. They can’t break you. They never could. You can only break yourself._

_Or you can rise above._

He activated his comm.

*

Ratchet heard a knocking on the door. Technically the clinic was closed, but mortal injuries didn’t wait until opening hours. So—hand on his blaster in case this was another gang attempting to steal their drugs—he opened the portal.

The mech on the other side was alone, but he still looked like a gang unto himself. He was tall, armoured, and standing with a determined solidity very different from the nervous mannerisms of the surge tweakers or the swaggering bravado of the local syndicate footsoldiers. Looking at him, Ratchet understood there was a difference between strong and powerful, and this mech radiated the second, in spades, even though the kibble on his back and shoulders indicated some type of industrial vehicle alt-mode. Faded flecks of yellow and black on his helm and shoulders suggested hazard stripes that had been almost, but not quite, stripped from his frame.

He didn’t look injured. And Ratchet didn’t fancy his chances in a fight.

Ratchet tripped his silent alarm to warn his colleagues; then he said, in a remarkably steady voice, “Can I help you?”

The big mech actually sidled, as though _he_ were the nervous one. “I’m Megatron. I have a meeting with Ratchet. About my interview?”

Ratchet’s circuits prickled with surprise. This…this was Megatron? This was the eloquent, pacifistic, intelligent mechanism he’d spoken to on his comm? Ratchet had expected…expected... It was hard to articulate what he’d expected. Someone _smaller_.

Ratchet had thought himself cured of prejudices. Apparently not.

But how had this working-class bot gotten into medical school?

“I’m Ratchet. Come on in.” He glanced over his shoulder. The other two doctors were in the room, waiting, having responded to his emergency signal. “You can meet your co-workers.”

There had been two applicants yesterday. One had insulted the clinic manager and been fired on the spot; the other had quit after one look at the clinic’s nurse. Ratchet wondered how Megatron would fare, and hoped he was made of sterner stuff.

Megatron bit at his lower lip, as if nervous; then he steeled his features and stepped inside. His optics sweeping the room before settling on the three medics facing him.

“I’d like you to meet Glit and Requiem.”

The two mechanisms in question traded a long look. Requiem stretched an arm forward from the shadows in which he stood; then he extended two fingers and pointed to Glit, paused, extended three and pointed to himself. Glit nodded. They both turned their attention to Megatron.

“Glit is the ward manager. As such, he is in charge when I’m not around, which is most of the time. If you think you’ll have problems taking direction, the door is behind you.”


	2. To Help the Hopeless

Megatron felt as though he’d stepped in to some kind of bizarre parallel universe. This…wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

Ratchet…and wasn’t every second medic named Ratchet or something similar, like Spanner or Wrench or Pliers…was the quintessential doctor, a mechanism with an emergency recovery vehicle for an alt mode, painted in the traditional white and red. Glit and Requiem were different makes entirely.

Megatron grasped immediately what Ratchet meant by _problems taking direction_. Glit was the sort of Cybertronian most mechanisms would call a creature, lower even than the disposable caste. He stood on all fours, and his head barely came up to Ratchet’s knee. It was a question about Megatron’s attitude.

“No, sir,” Megatron said. “A pleasure to meet you, Glit.”

Glit shot a narrow-eyed look at the form in the darkness.

“And our nurse, Requiem,” Ratchet continued, and made a clucking sound of disapproval. “Come out in the light so we can get a look at you. Honestly… Megatron, some day we will have enough shanix to light the place properly, but right now, we’re prioritizing medicines and basic operating costs.” 

Red optics glowered from the shadows. Then the owner of the arm took a step forward into the overhead light. 

The nurse, Requiem, was painted in immaculate glossy black; the grille of his alt mode was decorated with ornate silver filigree. Touches of the same ornamentation were visible here and there on his frame. He looked big enough to carry a medium-sized mechanism when he transformed, and yet his colours and design didn’t suit an emergency vehicle. He fixed Megatron with that burning gaze and nodded in silent acknowledgment.

“Hello,” Megatron said, feeling his fuel pump start to hammer and hoping it didn’t show, “I look forward to working with you.”

The nurse slowly raised an optic ridge and looked back at Glit. The felinoid’s jaw dropped. Requiem stepped back into the shadows.

“Come into the back,” Ratchet said, “and I’ll give you your orientation.”

Megatron folded his hands behind his back and followed, leaving two stunned medics behind him.

*

“That went better than expected,” Ratchet muttered.

“Your ward manager. Glit. Can he…” Megatron hesitated. “I don’t know the polite way to ask this.”

Ratchet could guess. “Can he function as a medic without hands?”

“Er…yes.”

“He’s got specialized tools. He’s fully capable of routine maintenance. Delicate surgeries we leave to Requiem. Or rather, Glit tells him what to do, and he does it.”

“I’m sorry if that question was offensive.”

“Frankly I’m just relieved you’re not asking me if Requiem is a Cryptkeeper.” Ratchet rolled his optics as he picked up a wrench.

“No,” Megatron said slowly. “It’s patently obvious that Requiem is a Cryptkeeper.”

Ratchet froze with the wrench in his hand. “If I have to hear any metaphysical nonsense…”

“…designed to make us hate and fear his kind and keep them down in the catacombs?” Megatron guessed. “Or perhaps those legends were created by his people themselves—using the fear of the other to their own advantage. Who can say? The point, Ratchet, is that I am not one to accuse another mechanism of failing to stay underground where he belongs.” Ratchet could hear the bitterness creeping into Megatron’s voice.

“Then you,” Ratchet said quietly, “above all mechanisms will understand what I meant when I said that working here requires an ironclad sense of ethics.” He took a deep breath, afraid of scaring this one away, yet feeling obligated to issue a warning about what he was getting into. “The Senate wouldn’t like this place. If they knew it exists. They decreed long ago that the Dead End wasn’t worth fixing; all they care about is containing it, using it as a dumping ground for undesirables. Right now, all the Enforcers know is that Glit out there is running an under the table repair shop. They’re willing to look the other way as long as the place isn’t worth their time.”

Megatron looked around, his gaze taking in all the equipment, the medicine, the bins of spare parts. “But this is more than an under the table repair shop. It’s a full functioning clinic. And Glit is more than a glorified body-work technician.”

“I trained him myself,” Ratchet said grimly. He’d seen the potential in the felinoid bot and taught him when no one else would—to do this job that no one else would do.

“Do you have any idea what brought Requiem out of the underground?”

Ratchet was silent. He didn’t believe in Cryptkeepers. Or thought he didn’t.

“I heard about them,” Megatron said quietly, “in the mines. Way down deep. We’ve all heard stories about a mech who knew a mech who uncovered catacombs. So I know the stories. But I’ve never heard of one coming up to the surface.”

Ratchet cleared his throat. “He doesn’t talk about his past. I know only three things about him for certain: he’s a consummate professional, he unnerves people, and he spends his free time on the roof, looking up at the stars.”

“So. You employ the unemployable. To help the hopeless.”

“I fix what I can,” Ratchet said grimly.

“And hope the Senate doesn’t ruin you. Will I ever get credit for the volunteer hours I put in here?” Megatron’s hands flexed, as though he were undecided on what to do. Ratchet suspected that Megatron might stay even if the answer was no.

“Oh, yes, you’ll get what you deserve. I’ll sign off on it personally.”

“You don’t think anyone will question it when you don’t provide details?”

“No.”

Megatron looked at him, looked at his hands, and then asked, “Because…?”

“Because I’m the Chief Medical Officer and the job comes with its perks.”

The student medic’s optics widened. “You’re… _that_ Ratchet?”

Ratchet sighed. They were naming every other medic Ratchet these days. “Yes. I’m _that_ Ratchet. Which is something else the Senate doesn’t need to know, or they’d lock me in the Deltaran Medical Facility for the rest of my life.”

Megatron nodded. “Understood.” He looked around the shop one more time. “Then if you think you would have room for a miner with aspirations to become a medic…yes, I would like to work for you.”

*

There was one more applicant.

Megatron was in the back room cleaning the floor—some poor leaker had emptied the contents of his fuel tank all over it not an hour before—when he felt someone behind him. He turned, quickly, having learned from long experience the value of trusting his instincts. He had survived when others of his kind had been crushed by cave-ins, mauled by indigenous wildlife or simply stabbed in the back, robbed of their credits and dropped down an empty shaft, never to be seen again.

Requiem stood behind him, and when Megatron looked at the nurse, he curled a finger in silent summons. _Come._

The mech was unnerving, no question, but Megatron had also not survived as long as he had by cowering. The miner-turned-medic entered the main room, just in time to see Ratchet talking to a student doctor—a rapid-response jet painted a shiny red-and-white, probably Vosian from the look of him—and Glit, walking in from the hallway to his personal quarters.

Glit looked their way. Requiem brushed Megatron’s shoulder, just long enough to get his attention. 

Three fingers for Glit.

Two fingers for Megatron.

One finger for himself.

And Requiem faded back into the shadows.

Megatron didn’t understand, but he stood there, watching the jet. Their optics locked.

“You have got to be kidding me,” the jet said. 

“Glit is,” Ratchet began.

The student cut him off. “I am not working with a _mining class_ mechanism. He’s not a medic, he’s a waste disposal technician.” The jet stuck his nose in the air, caught sight of Glit and sneered. “You. Miner.” He gestured towards Megatron. “You can’t even keep _animals_ from wandering into this so-called clinic?” He spun on his heel, faced Ratchet. “This is an outrage. Why haven’t you reported this festering dump to the proper authorities to…”

Megatron wasn’t certain how Requiem did it. One moment the nurse was behind him; the next, Requiem was behind the jet. He clamped his hand, very tightly and very painfully, on the medic’s left wing.

The newcomer wheeled. “Unhand m….”

Requiem’s stare shriveled the words in his throat.

Ratchet cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Pharma. The Dead End doesn’t suit everyone, and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a placement elsewhere. Under the terms of our initial agreement, though, I’ll presume you’ll be able to keep your experience here confidential.”

Requiem made a show of examining the scalpels that extended from his fingertips like claws. 

Pharma nodded a little too enthusiastically. “No…no problem at all.”

Megatron was _fascinated_. The mines had educated him thoroughly in the use of brute force, but this…this was something else again. The application of an implicit threat that was as, or more, effective than the application of raw might.

“Dismissed,” Ratchet said, and sighed as Pharma practically bolted from the room. Requiem sheathed his scalpels and watched the closing door with a look of longsuffering disappointment.

“Congratulations,” Glit said dryly to Megatron, “you’ll be getting three free rounds of drinks later.”

“Drinks?” Megatron repeated, wondering what he’d missed.

Ratchet rolled his optics again. “Is Requiem still laying odds on who will scare off new hires first?” He gave Megatron the suspicious optic. “Are you playing now?”

Three. Two. One. And he’d won, against the odds.

Megatron grinned. He’d never expected the Cryptke…the nurse to have a sense of humour.

“Just fitting in,” Megatron said.


	3. Through the Mill

“I hate to do that, you know,” Ratchet said, as he and Megatron worked side by side sterilizing equipment.

“Hate to do what?”

“Threats. Blackmail. Letting Requiem have his fun. Whatever you want to call it.” He glanced over at Megatron. “Given the ethical standards I impose on my hires, it must make you uncomfortable.”

Megatron shrugged. “I understand why you do it. If the Senate found out about this place, they’d shut you down. This place serves the greater good, helping those the Senate has abandoned. Therefore, to accomplish the greater good, you must deceive the Senate.”

Ratchet cast a wary eye on his newest hire. Megatron seemed to have come to terms with the reality of the situation a little too easily.

“Someday,” Megatron said, “this will be a world where people like Glit and Requiem and myself aren’t held back because of the shapes we take, or the methods by which we came into being. Someday, this will be a world where mechanisms advance to the farthest limits of their abilities—where what holds us back is not a matter of form, but a matter of _will_.” He broke off, as though embarrassed, and smiled at Ratchet. “I apologize. I _am_ minoring in philosophy, after all.”

“It’s a big dream,” Ratchet said matter-of-factly as he rinsed off a welding torch. “But we’ve started on it already. We fix what we can.”

*

Ratchet could never stay late into the night. The post of Chief Medical Officer had too many duties, restricting his presence to an hour here and there, a day at most. Megatron also had occasional seminars to attend, but he found himself spending most evenings at the clinic, even if he wasn’t working. The former miner felt at home in the Dead End in a way he never did in Iacon.

These were _his people_.

So here he sat with Glit and Requiem at the end of a hard day’s work. How odd, these days, to feel his mind tire before his body; it had been the opposite in the mines.

Glit had consumed the majority of a bottle of fermented energon, and Megatron knew that when he reached the bottom he would be singing along with the vapid pop songs already playing on a small music device in the corner. Requiem never consumed intoxicants; just as well, given one of them had to be sober in case an emergency case came in. His beverage was a softly glowing pink brew flecked with rust-brown flakes and curdled black blobs. It looked unpleasantly like the kind of fuel siphoned from a dead leaker’s tanks.

Requiem never offered to share, and the other medics never asked. 

Megatron himself was drinking low-grade engex, the same stuff he’d drank on leave as a miner, not because he had to but simply because it tasted familiar and he was tired of choking down rich blends and pretending to like them simply because the other medical students favoured them. He was weary to death of trying to fit in. Here, at least, he could be himself.

A knocking came on the door.

“Call it,” Glit said to Requiem.

Requiem raised an optic brow. “Unseen,” he whispered, and his voice was like sand over stone.

So. The Cryptkeeper wouldn’t lay odds until he’d seen the new arrival. Megatron got up and opened the door.

A battered blue mech stood there, weaving on his feet, and he wasn’t alone. His right forearm leaned on the back of a black felinoid with a frame type much like Glit’s; on his left, two avian mechanisms fluttered, squawking urgently. The blue mechanism had significant damage to his chest and face, and energon ran in pink rivulets down his left side. He looked at Megatron, and his expression went from bewildered to suddenly serene. The avians noticed and ceased their cries.

“Can you help him?” the black felinoid asked. 

“We were attacked,” the red-trimmed avian said. “He took the worst of it.”

The four legged mech hung his head. “Defending us.”

Megatron nodded. “We can help. Come in.” He looked over his shoulder. “Requiem! Get the operating room ready.”

The black felinoid stepped forward, and his friend limped alongside him.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Megatron asked, and the yellow and black avian replied, “Soundwave.”

*

Orion Pax came through the door carrying a heavy bundle in his arms, and Megatron promptly disappeared.

 _Huh_. Ratchet knew damned well the back rooms were clean and there was nothing out there demanding the junior medic’s attention. He made a note to ask Megatron about it later and turned his attention to Pax.

The police officer dropped the bundle on the nearest circuit slab and turned to go. “Sorry I can’t stay, old friend, but I have to track down a pair of lowlives who like to amuse themselves by beating on helpless mechanisms.” He nodded towards the table. “I hope there’s still something there worth repairing.”

Ratchet folded back the tarp that wrapped the bundle, and felt his fuel tanks sink. The mechanism wrapped in the tarp was a speedster, one that would have been pretty if he hadn’t been pummelled within an inch of his life. Of more immediate concern was the stub of a circuit booster sticking out of his forehead, and the scars on his arms where previous boosters had been pushed in, pulled out, and the holes none-too-expertly welded shut.

“I’ll do what I can,” Ratchet said grimly, and hoped it would be enough.

“When he wakes up,” Orion added, “tell him he’s lucky I don’t run him in for boosting.”

“Ah, give the kid a break, Pax,” Ratchet said, “he’s been through the mill.”

Ratchet set to work as Pax showed himself out. He ran coolant into the mech’s systems by piercing his fuel lines with a needle and drip; then he initiated a systems flush to purge the residual effects of the booster. A check of the poor mech’s fuel tank indicated it was on redline, so Ratchet topped him up. Soon his condition stabilized, and Ratchet added a mild sedative to the drip. He didn’t want the kid coming around while he was welding him back together.

Ratchet was so focused on the task that he barely noticed Megatron appearing at his side. The silver mechanism picked up a hammer and shaper and set to work pounding the dents out of the patient’s armour while Ratchet worked on the more delicate internal systems. 

“Took off pretty quickly there,” Ratchet said.

“Pax and I have…history.”

“Do I want to know?”

Megatron shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about miners.”

“And Cryptkeepers. And disposables. I’m getting good at sorting out truth from fiction.” He speared Megatron with a stern look. “So spit it out.”

“A friend of mine and I were drinking when some Senate enforcers decided to throw their weight around. My friend pushed back. It landed us in prison.”

Ratchet frowned. “Orion was a problem?”

“Oh, no, Pax got me out…far sooner than I expected, really.” He fiddled with the armour and refused to meet Ratchet’s optics. “I had an extremely unpleasant cellmate; I suspect that if I’d been left in there much longer he would have…Well. Anyway. Pax got me out, before any damage was done.”

“So why the disappearing act?”

Megatron ducked his gaze. “Pax…also retrieved my personal belongings. Admitted to having read my datapads.” 

Dawning realization lit Ratchet’s circuits. “You’re _embarrassed_.”

Megatron hammered all the harder. “That poetry was not yet fit for public consumption.”

Ratchet threw back his head and laughed. “That’s it. You’re afraid Pax will recognize you.”

“Actually,” Megatron admitted, “I’m more afraid he won’t.”


	4. Around Here Quite A Lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the problem when a story goes long - the writer gets sick, then needs time first to recover, then to catch up on all the work not done during the recovery. So yes, this will be finished, but not in the next couple of days. Until then...

“How’s your friend?” Ratchet asked a few weeks later.

Megatron stiffened. “You mean Orion Pax?”

Ratchet chuckled. “No, I mean your friend with the entourage.”

The former miner felt his optics flicker with confusion.

Ratchet sighed. “Okay. Please overlook how offensive this is: your disposable friend with the animal-mode companions.”

“Oh,” Megatron said, understanding now. “Soundwave.”

“Yes. I notice he’s around here quite a lot.”

Megatron sidled. Soundwave was around here a lot because Megatron was slipping him rations on the sly. Glit didn’t approve—said the clinic couldn’t afford to become a fueling station for desperate mechs, and resources were scarce enough as it were—but Megatron wasn’t using the clinic’s energon. This fuel he was getting himself, either by buying it, or simply helping himself to the leftovers his fellow med students left behind in the break room at school. Most of them were well off; they’d never miss it. And Soundwave was never going to get better unless he stopped pushing himself to take odd jobs to fuel himself and started concentrating on his recovery. 

“He’s getting better,” Megatron mumbled. “He’s really not at all defective. He just has trouble focusing his attention. He’s improving with practice, and he practices more when he spends less time on survival.” 

Megatron found himself feeling strangely defensive of Soundwave. The blue mech had proven to be a true and loyal friend, something that was in short supply in Megatron’s life. He noticed how Impactor had never bothered to come see him since he started medical school, and the word around the mines was that Megatron was “too good” for his former co-workers now. 

That wasn’t it at all. Megatron wanted to hit them until they understood. He hadn’t put on airs, and he hadn’t abandoned them. He’d tried to do something to better all their lives, and _they_ had abandoned _him_.

He’d always planned to return to the mines after he graduated, to repair his former colleagues. Now he wasn’t so sure.

And his thoughts were still too nebulous for him to feel confident about explaining and justifying them to Ratchet.

“I notice someone else is around here quite a lot,” Megatron replied, because life in the mines had taught him that the best defense was a strong offense. “What was his name again? Draft?”

“It’s Drift, and yes, he’s around here a lot.” Ratchet mumbled something Megatron couldn’t quite hear.

“I’m sorry?” Megatron asked, though he wasn’t, not in the least.

“I said, this clinic could probably use a few mechs to do odd jobs. We don’t need doctors to clean the floors, and we don’t need medics to upload the medical files. A couple trained technicians would be a big help around here.”

Megatron nodded slowly.

“Can’t afford to pay much; room and board is most of what I can offer. I’ve got one person in mind, but if you could suggest anyone else?” Ratchet said with a wink.

Megatron felt a slow smile spread across his lips. “I think I could, at that.”

*

Soundwave adapted quickly to life in the clinic. He was quiet, and a little creepy, but years of working with Requiem had inoculated Ratchet to any such petty objections to a mechanism who worked hard, showed a strong aptitude, and was dependable as solid steel.

Drift, less so.

Drift came and went, always happy to help out when he was there in exchange for a few cubes of energon and some minor repairs, but the next day he’d be gone again, without a word of goodbye or any indication when he’d be back. 

This time he’d been gone more than three weeks. It was the longest he’d ever been away, and Ratchet was starting to worry. There were a lot of things that could go wrong for a mech on the streets—kidnapping and enslavement, murder, a bad trip… Drift swore he’d quit boosting, but Ratchet wasn’t convinced he didn’t still do fuel additives, and the last thing Ratchet wanted to think about was Drift in some condemned building, trembling in pain, too damaged to even call for help.

“Drift?” Ratchet asked as he opened the door of the clinic.

Requiem looked up, shook his head no. No sign.

“I wish I knew where in the Pit he was,” Ratchet sighed.

“Drift will be all right,” Megatron rumbled. “He’s been living on these streets a long time.”

Ratchet eyed the big medic, not certain if Megatron’s words were a vote of confidence in Drift’s survival skills or an utter lack of concern for his welfare now that he wasn’t on the slab in front of them.

Megatron turned his head, caught Ratchet’s optics. “But if you’re worried, I think I have an idea. We could…”

That was when the door slipped open and Drift himself swaggered in.

“Hey there. What’s…”

Ratchet could barely resist punching the slag-sucking grin off the speedster’s face. “Where have you been? What have you been doing?”

“Oh, come on, doc, I was just…”

“You have a job here! You don’t just fail to show up to work.”

Drift’s jaw dropped. “Hey, back off! Frag, if I knew you were going to be like this, maybe I would have stayed gone.”

He turned on his heel, but tellingly, he stormed off into the stockroom where the fuel was kept, rather than back out the front door.

Ratchet shook his head. What was he going to do with that kid?

*

Drift was gone again, but this time, Megatron had been ready. Ravage had been trailing the speedster ever since he left the clinic, and now he was transmitting data to Buzzsaw, who took turns with Laserbeak relaying the information back to Soundwave. And Soundwave shared it with Megatron.

Drift had just gotten off a monorail at the main station in Kaon.

Megatron rubbed his chin, wondering if he should send Ratchet a message and let him know the kid was all right. He decided to wait until the next time Ratchet made it in to the clinic. Transmissions from the Dead End to Iacon were too likely to be intercepted by the Senate’s spies. Ratchet needed to remain above suspicion.

“What’s in Kaon?” Megatron asked.

Soundwave shrugged.

Not much, indeed. “Advise me if the situation changes,” Megatron suggested, and then he went back to the main room to assist Glit with the day’s patients.

A long, wearying workday was just wrapping up when Soundwave reappeared and signaled for Megatron’s attention. Megatron took a long look at Glit, who was occupied with uploading the day’s medical files, and then joined Soundwave in the storeroom.

Soundwave played his data file, and Megatron’s breath caught in his intakes.

*


	5. How the Other Half Lives

Ratchet finished up his speech praising the graduating medical class, the best and the brightest of the Iacon Medical Academy, and his gaze fell to the hulking figure in the front row. Twice as tall as the medics on either side of him, Megatron’s expression was distant, as though his mind were somewhere else.

He’d made it. He’d graduated medical school; as of today, he was a doctor. Ratchet had hoped to see this day for a long time, and feel his spark swell with pride as he handed Megatron his diploma, knowing the former miner had proved himself the equal or better of any mechanism in this room.

Ratchet hadn’t expected it to feel like this.

Megatron still didn’t fit in. His classmates still taunted him; his superiors still avoided him, as though by ignoring him, he might just go away and, if they were lucky, stay gone. Ratchet knew better. Megatron was not the type to fade away. And no amount of Ratchet’s hoping had made Megatron belong.

As it turned out, thanks to the example of a miner who became a successful medic, Ratchet was beginning to question whether or not _he_ belonged in this world that judged a mechanism by the circumstances of his creation.

*

Megatron had behaved himself like a good little drone, following the motions and accepting his diploma. He’d taken the time to shake Ratchet’s hand in acknowledgment of all the senior doctor had done for him.

And then he’d been out of there, off to catch a train to Kaon.

He opened his comm link. “Soundwave. Advise.”

“Drift is still in Kaon. There is another match scheduled for tonight. The location has changed. A new arena has been constructed underneath the old plasteel factory.”

“Excellent. I’ll report in once I arrive.” Megatron paused. “How are things in the clinic?”

“Glit: drunk. Laserbeak: disgusted. Requiem: busy.”

_Ratchet: proud of me._

_Soundwave: supporting me._

_Drift…oh, Drift. What are you?_

_Intriguing me, perhaps._

Megatron got off the train at Kaon’s main station and touched base with Soundwave again. Buzzsaw was shadowing Drift, and with Soundwave’s directions, it wasn’t long before Megatron saw a familiar white helm in the middle rows of a newly and hastily constructed auditorium. Pre-recorded music played over a series of speakers, but there were as of yet few signs of precisely what sort of event was going to take place that evening in this location.

Megatron purchased two drinks from a vendor and made his way over to Drift, where he asked, “Is this seat taken?”

“Megatron?” Drift gasped.

Megatron passed one of the drinks to the white speedster. “Relax. You’re not in trouble.”

“I’m not?” the white mech asked suspiciously as he accepted the drink and sipped it warily.

Megatron sat down and sampled his own drink before saying,“Ratchet worries about you. It’s difficult for me to watch. At least, it was until I realized that I was not powerless. I followed you,” he added, omitting the fact that even now, Buzzsaw was circling overhead, keeping track of them both.

“Okay. Now what?”

“Would you mind some company, Drift?”

Drift eyed him, as though looking for a hidden trick he knew was coming. “I don’t know if you’re going to like what I’m here to see.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you’re here to see. This is the latest iteration of Kaon’s infamous pit fights.” Megatron stretched his back, straightening. “An old friend of mine and I used to go when we were on leave aboveground.” 

He realized he hadn’t thought of Impactor in a long time, and searched the bleachers, wondering if he might see his fellow miner in the crowd.

Drift studied him a moment longer, and then nodded. “Okay. I’ll buy it.” He snorted. “A medic who goes to pit fights. Who knew?”

Megatron smiled slyly. “If you’ll look carefully,” he said, and gestured to his chest.

The red cross badge he usually wore was resting on a tray of instruments back in the clinic.

Drift’s grin broadened. “Just two working-class mechs looking for trouble,” he said.

“Indeed. Though, if the word for what I’m doing is _slumming_ , what’s the word for what you’re doing?” he teased.

“Seeing how the other half lives?” Drift replied with a smirk.

Megatron snorted. “The _other half_ is locked up in their ivory tower in Iacon, ignorant of everything that’s going on around them. Thinking that power is a permanent possession, rather than a mutable energy. I don’t know how Ratchet deals with them every day. I’d…I’d…”

“How’d you ever end up a medic?” Drift asked.

Where to begin? Megatron sipped his drink, stalling for time, and then slowly began to speak. About the cave-in. About the long, slow days spent digging out, hoping his friends on the other side were making a tunnel to meet them. About one of his fellow miners, who bled out quickly, and another, who took a week to die. About Impactor, who’d survived because of Megatron’s jury-rigged repair job on his primary circuits.

He’d never considered himself—what? Smart enough? Skilled enough? Adaptable enough? Or was it just that he’d been told so often what he could and could not be that he had started to believe? At any rate, it was that incident—those desperate guesses miles belowground that saved some lives, even if he lacked knowledge or equipment to save everyone—that moment that told him yes, he could be a medic; that he could make a difference.

As he spoke, he realized that he should be more concerned with what he was about to do. Ratchet would certainly not approve of the gladiator fights. As a doctor, shouldn’t he be worried that he was about to see mechanisms inflicting harm upon one another?

And yet…and yet…

And yet his objections stayed silent. Those mechs in the pits, they were there because they _wanted_ to be. Because they chose to fight rather than to beg or to labor for overseers like slaves. Some of them had actually _been_ slaves. And now, despite the danger, they were warriors. No, Megatron could not argue with that.

But he hoped Drift wasn’t in a hurry to leave when the show was over. 

He suspected they might need help putting the fighters back together.

*

Megatron had money now.

Ratchet cast a wary optic over the big box of medical supplies cradled in the big silver mechanism’s arms. Megatron was beaming, pleased with himself, and rightly so—Ratchet couldn’t deny the clinic badly needed all the things in that box. But while Glit was prancing about in a four-legged dance of joy, Ratchet felt strangely disquieted.

He knew from his contacts at the university that Megatron had not been employed by any of the Cybertronian hospitals, or any of the research labs, or any of the private medical offices. He hadn’t gone into business for himself, according to the records, and he didn’t work in medical administration, and he didn’t teach. He didn’t even rate a job in a morgue.

So where were all the credits coming from?

The door slid open, and in came…Drift, to Ratchet’s delight. The kid looked sober, and he was carrying another box overflowing with supplies. 

“How’re you affording this?” Ratchet asked, hoping he sounded as though he were gently teasing, but secretly wishing for an answer.

“I’ve got a job,” Megatron replied, and as if he sensed that answer would not satisfy the CMO, he added, “In Kaon.”

“Kaon?” Ratchet asked, surprised, because Kaon was only one step above the Dead End. Come to think of it, Ratchet could see Megatron fitting in very well in Kaon.

What he couldn’t see was where anyone in Kaon would get the credits to hire a doctor.

“Don’t worry,” Megatron said, “they know I intend to continue working here.” He pressed his lips together. “I am not the sort of mech to forget where I came from.”


End file.
